Diamonds Are Forever

So where have I been? You may or may not know Major League Baseball finished its first week on Sunday. I don't know how baseball is fairing as America's pastime but for me it is something of instant nostalgia: playing catch with my dad until it is nearly too dark to see the ball, breaking the neighbor's windows, imagining I was a big leaguer knocking one out of the park at backyard whiffle ball home run derby, silently gasping at the electric sting in my hands when the ball hit the end of the bat during an early Spring practice. I really could go on and on.

When I was a boy I grew up watching the last all-star outfield of the Pittsburgh Pirates, Bonilla, Bonds and Van Slyke. Any time I step up to the plate I still bunch my short sleeves up onto my shoulders like Andy (partly because he did it and partly because my dad did it). Baseball is a very superstitious sport and this habit gives me confidence. Coming in and out of the field I never step on the  baseline and I always lead with my left foot. If I were to step on that line you have no idea how poorly I would play. I don't want to give away all my tells but there are more.

I can't say exactly what the magic in baseball is for me. In my conscious mind I spent 1990 to 2009 watching the Pirates so I know it isn't winning (two pennants aside). To boot, from 2009 to 2013 I've watched the Phillies steadily decline from such great heights. Clearly, a winning team is not in the magical brew.

 As if watching a 162 game season wasn't consuming enough, I made the decision to manage a fantasy baseball team this year (only the second time I've done so). Why only the second time? Because I tend to become a little obsessed. Already, one week in, last night it was "It's either me or baseball!" from the wife. Do I have to answer that right now? Can't you smell the grass? Where is the sky that shade of blue except above a baseball diamond? Statistics are synonymous with baseball and I derive some pleasure from sifting through box scores and searching for the patterns, the flukes, the diamond in the ruff. I'm not a numbers guy so this exception baffles me.

What is it about baseball? Maybe it is the pace of the game (long enough for the sun to set), of the season (April through October brings Spring, Summer and Autumn). The slow pace suits me. I approach most everything with the idea I'll be working at it for a long time. Don't rush me or I'll just walk away.

On top of watching games and farming a fantasy roster, I started reading The Summer of '49. The chronicle of the still classic rivalry between the Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees. Joe DiMaggio and Ted Williams. Pennant race. It's not enough to live in the present. I can't get enough of this stuff. I stepped out of the car the other evening, head down I walked up the stairs into our apartment. Apparently I had a look on my face, like something was really wrong. My wife asked me what was the matter. "I don't know. Roy gave up a two-run homer in the first. I think that must be it."

I like rooting for the old dog to learn a new trick. Maybe it is the mere mortal's pursuit for perfection, even if it is a fleeting moment. Days and days heaped on hours piled upon hours tweaking mechanics and tearing muscles to better a career that could come down to one swing of the bat, one pitch on the corner of the plate, one scoop or leaping catch.

Maybe it's not the love for a team but the love for a game. To be a fan you have to know the history, the rules, the strategy, the stats, and the superstitions. And you realize 3 hours is hardly a drop in the oceanic timeline of Major League Baseball. I would say I've lost a lot of my life to baseball if I felt it was a loss. If I can't be on the grass, I want to be in the stands, just take me out to the ballgame. I'll have time to stretch later on.